Here's a book that shows its age in its pernicious portrayal of Black anti-Semitism long since out of fashion even among the most zealous of our crackHere's a book that shows its age in its pernicious portrayal of Black anti-Semitism long since out of fashion even among the most zealous of our crackpots.

E for effort, and T for nice try. Fuckin' Ofay.

See that? I flipped it. It's me, y'all.

But seriously, I question this book's continued relevance, except as a cultural/historical document, which happens to be written by a sometimes great writer....more

It's the kind of book I'd read if I worked in a cubicle and wanted to have something to discuss in the breakWell I was incredibly bored by this book.

It's the kind of book I'd read if I worked in a cubicle and wanted to have something to discuss in the break room.

E.G.: "Hey, Don, did you know beer initially happened by accident, many thousands of years ago?"

And then wine, and then distilled spirits, and blahblahblah.

Boring.

I probably should give this book three stars, because there are people out there, lots of them, who don't know any of this stuff, who have never talked about beer, wine, liquor, tea, coffee or coke. Yeah.

But I don't want to hang out with those people because I don't want to rehash those discussions, which I had during and immediately following high school.

My question to those who find Frank Bascombe's engagement with his world wooden and without feeling:

How much of your grief do you put on display, andMy question to those who find Frank Bascombe's engagement with his world wooden and without feeling:

How much of your grief do you put on display, and of how much do you permit yourself to be consciously aware?

The beauty of this book is its honesty in appraising the possible synthesis of pain into useful experience. That is to say, Oprah's favorite writers will show us closure, learning, and growth, but they are (pernicious and filthy) liars. Ford tells the truth, that life is more frequently than not incomprehensible, something to be borne, not used. Joy and pleasure are present, but appropriately sullied by the means through which Bascombe achieves and obtains them (e.g.: his relationship to the lovely and decent Vicky, whom he must claim falsely to love in order to generate the desired--but of course transient--sense of comfort).

Ford's prose is lovely, sometimes a bit too florid (yes, even in spite of the fact that he cleverly chooses a wordsmith as his narrator), but in general coolly precise.

I like it when Moody takes things seriously, as he does here, and in, for example "The Ice Storm," as opposed to the more sweeping and satirical "FourI like it when Moody takes things seriously, as he does here, and in, for example "The Ice Storm," as opposed to the more sweeping and satirical "Four Fingers of Death," or "The Diviners." Don't get me wrong, I liked those well enough, but this cuts straighter and more deeply.

This book is painful to read in places, like where he focuses on Dexter, "Hex" Raitliffe's terrible booze habit.

Or Lou Sloane's temporary abdication of his life (dying wife, his love for her, etc), or maybe it's more important how he is convinced to return than the fact that he leaves in the first place. I don't know, but whichever, it's "straight-up real shit." Even though the main players are affluent and white, and the one non-white character is also both gay and basically plays a convenient plot device/chauffeur.

One cannot help seeing its author in its protagonist, unforgiving, yet utterly cracked and flawed to theHey, I would've loved it if this book sucked.

One cannot help seeing its author in its protagonist, unforgiving, yet utterly cracked and flawed to the point where one wonders why anyone would spend time and/or affection on such an unrepentant misanthrope.

One really cool thing about reading this after taking a course with Mr. Bradley: His magnum opus is modeled after Melville's Moby Dick , so you see in these pages what he means when he says "Moby Dick is a master text." Like the bible, or the dictionary, it's arguable that all other books (or stories, or moral sturctures, etc...in a sense) are contained within the source.

But it is also worth reading for its own merit. A mystery. An only semi-fictional history text. A pretty damn cogent (yeah, passing the test of time) book on race in America, though the book-jacket blurb comparison between Bradley and Ellison is patly, ridiculously false.

Oh, ifg you have ever been pissed-off by Bradley's meticulousness as he reads your > work, you'll love the errors and lazy prose scattered through this book....more

First, how many bedtime stories about black kids do you remember *before* this one?

Second, this, and all of Keats' stories were familiar (let alone acFirst, how many bedtime stories about black kids do you remember *before* this one?

Second, this, and all of Keats' stories were familiar (let alone actually relevant) if you grew up in an urban, working-class environment. But at the same time, there's all that wonder at the world, which poor kids have in the same proportions as everyone else.

I just realized, re-reading this fine book that it is among the most painfully real and beautiful explorations of manhood, family, and father-son dynaI just realized, re-reading this fine book that it is among the most painfully real and beautiful explorations of manhood, family, and father-son dynamics I've ever read.

And, the pain (as with all the fiction I love best) is not belittled, but accentuated and made fuller by the copious humor.